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Authors: Steve Alten

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BOOK: Goliath
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The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors echoes in the distance.
“All through Nature, you will find the same law: First the need, then the means.”
—Robert Collier
 
 
“The atomic bomb will never go off, and I will speak as an expert in explosives.”
—Admiral William Leahy to President Truman, 1945
 
 
“Science will conquer famine, eliminate psychological suffering, and make everybody healthy and happy … yeah, sure.”
—Theodore Kaczynski, a.k.a. the Unabomber, who sent bombs through the mail, causing three deaths and numerous injuries
 
 
“We only killed our own.”
—Mickey Featherstone, Irish mobster, to future New York mayor Rudy Giuliani
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The tall woman with the pale complexion and shoulder-length brown hair fidgets as she waits her turn at the dais. She scans the crowd, then glances at the television crews.
One-third capacity, and none of the major news networks are even here. What the hell’s wrong with our species? Are we that infatuated by the stock market and pro football? Don’t we realize that our very lives are in danger?
“Our next speaker is Dr. Elizabeth Goode, the foremost authority on nanocomputers and the author of ‘The End of the World and Other Selffulfilling Prophecies.’ Dr. Goode?”
A smattering of applause from the late-morning crowd.
“Before I begin, I suppose I should thank you for even bothering to show up. Frankly, it seems more and more of our population is caring less and less about the world’s quest to annihilate itself using thermonuclear means. I don’t know … maybe we scientists are simply not explaining ourselves properly, or the public just doesn’t believe us. Hell, maybe this entire convention would have been better served if the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research had invited some Hollywood bimbo with big tits to speak to you about nuclear proliferation instead of an overworked, single mother with a 170 IQ and dark circles under her eyes.”
A rustling of chairs as the crowd reenergizes.
Give ’em hell, Goode. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease
.
“You just heard Dr. Robert Schwager warn us about how the former Soviet Union’s stockpiles of weapons’ grade plutonium have turned into the equivalent of a third world yard sale, and yet most of you are probably daydreaming
about your Philadelphia Eagles winning streak or thinking about what you’ll order for lunch. For God’s sake, people, wake up! Apathy is the world’s greatest killer, so you’d better snap out of it now and smell the sarin, before we wipe ourselves off the face of this goddamn planet.”
Dr. Goode registers the local television cameraman’s lens zooming in from stage right.
“I’ve been invited here this morning to give you a brief overview of the latest doomsday technology, a little something we scientists refer to as ‘pure-fusion weapons.’ You’d think we humans would already be satisfied with our ability to annihilate the world’s population a healthy five thousand times … but no. Now scientists at the United States National Ignition Facility at Livermore, California, and our French counterparts at the Laser Megajoule Facility in Bordeaux are on the brink of testing a new weapon, a real doomsday bomb—one that our politicians in Washington may actually be persuaded to use.
“To understand the power of pure fusion you must first understand the difference between fission and fusion. In the fusion trigger of a conventional hydrogen bomb, uranium 235 absorbs a neutron. Fission occurs when the nucleus energetically breaks apart to produce two smaller nuclei and several neutrons, which go on to split more uranium nuclei. The resultant chain reaction proceeds rapidly, producing an explosion. This fission explosion is what produces the temperature and density necessary to trigger the
fusion
of deuterium and tritium, the two heavy isotopes of hydrogen.
“Fusion is considerably different than fission. Fusion is a reaction that occurs when two atoms of hydrogen combine or fuse together to form an atom of helium, and a ‘leftover’ neutron, a cousin of what powers the sun. Fusion releases much greater quantities of energy than fission, causing an even larger explosion.”
Dr. Goode scans the crowd, its energy waning.
Keep it simple, you’re losing them …
“The key difference in a conventional and a pure-fusion H-bomb is how the explosion is triggered. A pure-fusion bomb doesn’t need fission to engage the explosion. This means plutonium or enriched uranium is not required in the design. The good news, if you can call it that, is that no plutonium means little to no radioactive fallout. The bad news is that the nuclear threshold is greatly lowered, so that a 20-mm bullet could explode like many tons of TNT. The explosive power of many relatively small, pure-fusion devices would be much greater than the same weight of a single conventional hydrogen bomb, and far less expensive.”
A female reporter in the front row stands. “Can you tell us how much greater?”
Dr. Goode frowns. “I’ll give you an example. The atomic bomb our country dropped on Hiroshima generated an amount of energy equivalent to nineteen kilotons or nineteen thousand tons of TNT. Temperatures at the hypocenter, or ground zero, reached seven thousand degrees, with a wind velocity estimated at 980 miles per hour. That blast wave killed most of the people within a half mile radius instantly. That was a mere fifteen-kiloton explosion. The biggest version of the H-bomb generates twenty to fifty megatons, or 50 million tons of TNT, the equivalent of two to three thousand Hiroshima-size bombs. A pure-fusion bomb generates a far greater damage volume per unit weight. It would only take a cluster of half-kiloton pure-fusion bombs to equal the military impact of a thirty-megaton H-bomb. That’s a tenth of a ton of pure-fusion TNT to equal a megaton of the conventional nuke. Let me quantify that for you in another way. If you wanted to wipe out a whole continent’s population … say, that of Europe, the job could feasibly be accomplished using only six to twelve well-placed Trident II (D5) nuclear missiles whose warheads had been converted to a swarm of pure-fusion weapons.”
Gasps from the crowd.
A reporter from the
Trenton Times
raises his hand. “Dr. Goode, are you saying these pure-fusion bombs already exist?”
“We have the bomb, the key to the technology is in its triggering mechanism. Both the United States and France have been working illegally on the problem for decades. Los Alamos is rumored to be only months away from testing a magnetized target fusion driver. In magnetized target fusion, an initial plasma is created by electromagnetic means. Conventional high explosives then compress the plasma, creating the conditions necessary for pure-fusion ignition.”
Another hand is raised. “Exactly what do you mean by illegally?”
“Actually, I meant that subjectively. The Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty of 1996 bans all nuclear explosions. Unfortunately, the CTBT never formally defined the term ‘explosion,’ since it assumed only fission triggers, and so testing goes on. It’s a loophole our government refuses to close.”
A heavyset man in the fourth row stands, pausing to allow the television cameras to focus. Dr. Goode recognizes the Republican lobbyist from her visits on Capitol Hill. “Come now, Ms. Goode, aren’t you overplaying the part of antinuke alarmist just a bit? No country has ever announced the goal of building these pure-fusion weapons. And even if they were conceived, no country would ever use them.”
Goode stares at the man with a look to kill. “First off, Mr. Johnston, no country would be stupid enough to announce pure fusion as a goal. Second and most importantly, what you’re failing to mention is the real danger of
these weapons. When it comes to acquiring thermonuclear devices, the biggest obstacle to rogue nations and terrorists up to now has been their inability to obtain sufficient quantities of enriched uranium or plutonium. By contrast, deuterium is abundant in seawater and tritium is easily made in a college physics lab.”
“Come on, Ms. Goode—”
“It’s DOCTOR Goode, Mr. Johnston, now sit your Republican-leased fat ass down.”
A smattering of applause as she grabs the microphone and turns to face the cameras. “If you listen to nothing else I say, listen to this. The most frightening thing about pure-fusion weapons is what attracted the military to them in the first place—and that is their much smaller yields and relative lack of radioactive fallout. By eliminating the harmful aftereffects of the bomb, you reduce the political unacceptability of using the weapon while increasing its relative lethality.
“In other words, humanity is on the brink of eliminating its own nuclear stalemate.”
 
Dr. Goode inches her way through the crowded lobby to a waiting elevator. The doors shut, sealing off the mob. She presses the button for Parking Level Three.
Three-thirty. With any luck, I’ll miss rush-hour traffic and be back in Wilmington before Duncan and Ian get home from school.
The elevator doors open. She hurries to her car, a two-year-old Lincoln Town Car she has converted to fuel cells. Using her key chain, she deactivates the security device—
—as the two FBI agents approach from behind, flashing their badges.
“Sometime in the next thirty years, very quietly one day we will cease to be the brightest things on Earth.”
—James McAlear
 
 
“
This conflict was begun on the timing of others; it will end in a way and at an hour of our choosing
.”
—President George W. Bush, after the terrorism of 9-11-01
 
 
“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions”
—Samuel Johnson
Washington, D.C.
Gunnar follows Rocky and the two MPs down a short corridor in the West Wing of the White House. His pulse quickens as the large, light-skinned African American steps out from behind a set of double doors to the president’s Situation Room.
The Bear returns his daughter’s salute. “Wait for us inside.”
Rocky shoots her father a look, then enters the private chamber, leaving the two MPs unsure of what to do next.
“Return to your posts.”
“But sir—”
“Dismissed.”
The MPs pivot and head back down the hall.
General Jackson stares at his former commando. “Glad you’re here.” “Didn’t have much of a choice:”
“The president’s inside waiting. We’ll talk later. For now, keep your ears open and your mouth shut, and don’t allow anyone to provoke you.”
“Maybe you ought to mention that to your daughter.”
Ignoring the comment, Jackson opens the door, motioning Gunnar inside. The newly appointed commander in chief of the United States Special Operations Command feels as if he is leading a lamb to slaughter.
Rocky is standing off to one side. Her father signals her over as a gangly civilian with tight wavy hair steps forward to greet them.
“Commander Jackson, meet Gray Ayers, Secretary of the Navy. Mr. Secretary, this is my daughter, Commander Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher.”
Thomas Gray Ayers, Jr. extends his hand. “We’re all sorry for your loss, Commander, and I’m sure there are places you’d rather be, but this briefing singularly requires your presence. When answering the president, keep your responses short and to the point. Nothing too technical, but don’t hold back either. Edwards has been around the block a few times and doesn’t like to be bullshitted.” Ayers turns to face Gunnar, a grimace pulling on his long face. “Mr. Wolfe, I’m not quite sure what to say to you. The general feels you can shed some light on what’s happened, and I respect his opinion, but frankly, I’d just as soon see you shot for treason.”
Ayers nods curtly to General Jackson, then walks away, taking his place at the conference table.
Gunnar grits his teeth. “Nice to meet you, too … asshole.”
Jackson grips Gunnar’s elbow, leading him and his daughter toward three vacant chairs.
Two more men enter. The Bear leans over to Gunnar, informing him that the man with the black hair and piercing blue eyes is Austin Tapscott, the new Secretary of Defense. The former Army Airborne sniper offers a curt nod. The general with the receding hairline is Marc Ben-Meir, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He offers his condolences to Rocky, pointedly refusing to so much as glance at Gunnar.
A short man enters the Situation Room, pushing his way past the general.
President Edwards’s newly appointed Secretary of State takes a seat at the conference table and ceremoniously begins reviewing his notes. Nick Nunziata, Jr. is a former senator from Georgia who lacks the jovial personality of his late father, Democratic congressman Nicholas Nunziata, Sr. At five-foot-seven, Nunziata’s short stature belies a fierce reputation. A straightforward, no-nonsense guy bearing a bit of a Napoleon complex, the man is not one to be trifled with.
The President of the United States enters through a paneled door, followed by CIA Director Gabor Pertic. The steely look behind Edwards’s fierce hazel eyes reveals the seriousness of the meeting. A staunch conservative Democrat, Jeff Edwards’s middle-aged looks are already showing signs of wear and tear from his first years in office, the most recent events causing the dark brown hairs along his temples to turn gray almost overnight.
The president takes his place at the center chair.
“All right, let’s get at it. For those of you who don’t know, Director Pertic and I have spent most of the last forty-eight hours in conference with Li Peng. It took a lot of balls for the Chinese president to come forward. Then again, had he not, our retaliatory actions against his nation would have started World War III.”
Edwards’s last words hang in the air. Rocky feels her intestines crawling inside her stomach.
The president signals to his CIA Director, who removes a minidisk from his jacket pocket and inserts it into a volume display located at the center of the conference table. It’s an advanced model, one that can render opaque objects, or show the same 2-D image to a 360-degree audience.
The ghostly image of a Chinese coastline appears, the aerial view closing on the concrete roof of a massive factory. “This is the Jianggezhuang Submarine Base, an underground facility located on the southern coast of the Bo Hai Gulf, on the opposite side of the Shandong Peninsula from Qingdao. Seven years ago, one of our CIA operatives reported that former president Yang Shangkun had met in secrecy with Jiang Zemin and members of China’s military leaders in an attempt to bolster his political standing. Shangkun bragged to the commission that he had connections with a high-level operative who had worked in our Special Warfare Division in Keyport. This operative claimed he had access to the schematics of an experimental weapon that could render the United States fleet helpless.”
Secretary of State Nunziata shakes his head. “I’ve met Shangkun. Bastard was the military strongman who attempted to use his connections in China’s armed forces to take supreme power back in the late eighties. Although he failed, he did play a crucial role in suppressing the pro-democracy demonstrations that swept China back in ’89.”
Pertic nods, then continues. “Although he was forced into retirement, Shangkun still remained a power broker in Chinese politics. Several years had passed since the Chinese had stolen military secrets from Los Alamos, and most of the ineffective political pressures imposed by the Clinton administration had subsided. The Chinese agreed to finance Yang Shangkun’s operation. The schematics were stolen, along with key components of a biochemical computer, called
Sorceress.
Seven years and $18 billion later, the Chinese Navy covertly finished construction on the
Goliath,
the most lethal killing machine ever designed—a weapon, as we’ve seen, that is capable of changing the balance of power.”
Director Pertic looks Gunnar squarely in the eyes. “Evidence concerning the theft of the
Goliath’s
schematics had pointed squarely at Captain Wolfe, who headed the project’s weapons department.”
Gunnar starts to say something, but the Bear is quicker, gripping his forearm tightly in one paw, the glare in his hazel eyes warning the ex-Ranger to remain silent.
Pertic continues. “Of course, we now know the operative was not Captain Wolfe but a close friend of his at Keyport. Want to tell us who your friend was, Captain? Or do you prefer I reveal his identity?”
Gunnar’s pulse pounds in his ears. “It’s your party, I’m just an invited guest.”
“But you know who did it, don’t you?”
Gunnar nods. “I have my suspicions.”
“Dammit, man, where were your loyalties?” Secretary of Defense Tapscott says, ripping into him. “We both served in the Gulf. You were one of our best commandos, you risked your life for your country at least a dozen times. If only you had revealed the traitor’s name years ago, none of this might have happened!”
Gunnar feels the knot in his throat tighten. “Sir, at the time, I had no idea Simon had stolen the schematics.”
“Simon Covah?” Rocky groans.
Pertic slides a new disk into the volume display’s control box. A rotating image appears. It is a man’s face, heavily scarred. The head is cleanly shaved, the skin along one side showing evidence of numerous grafts. A thick auburn mustache and goatee cover most of the burn marks located along the mouth.
“Simon Bela Covah. Born in Russia in 1956, the oldest of six children. Covah’s father was a submarine commander who served in the Soviet Navy during World War II. The mother was left to raise six children in a small farming village while her husband was at sea. Young Simon, who possessed an IQ of 182, was enrolled in Moscow State University at the unheard-of age of fourteen. Three years later, he graduated at the top of his class and received a high-ranking position at the Sevmash Naval Yard in Severodvinsk, where he served as an apprentice and aide to Sergey Nikitich Kovalev, the chief designer for the Typhoon-class ballistic missile submarines. Covah’s interest turned to computers, and his eventual expertise helped the Soviets close the technological gap between their submarine force and ours. The Company first took an interest in him several years later, during the design phase of Russia’s new Borey-class missile submarine.”
Secretary Nunziata looks peeved. “Are you saying Covah was recruited by the CIA?”
“CIA tried. Covah disappeared for a while, then showed up working in secret for Toronto’s biggest biotech corporation, Cangen. Dr. Goode eventually recruited him at Keyport.”
Rocky turns to Nunziata. “Without Covah, Dr. Goode could never have completed Sorceress’s biointerfacing silicon microcircuitry, or her genetically engineered computational bacteria. The man really is a genius. Unfortunately, none of us had a clue about the man’s real intentions … with the possible exception of Gunnar Wolfe.”
Pertic nods. “Covah exhibited all the telltale signs of being the perfect defector. The breakup and financial collapse of the Soviet Union brought with it massive chaos in Russia’s naval yards, which were overwhelmed with a logjam of nuclear subs waiting to be decommissioned. Covah became disgusted
with the dismantling and disposal procedures and began providing us details regarding the storage and reprocessing of the boomers’ spent nuclear fuel cells as early as 1987. CIA recruited him a short time later. As a precaution, he had his wife, Anna, a Chechen woman, move their family to her parent’s home in Zitinje. Turned out to be a fatal mistake. As preparations were being made to bring the entire family to the States, the Serbs invaded Kosovo. Covah hurried to Zitinje, only to find the village destroyed and his in-laws’ house burned to the ground. Anna had been raped and beaten. Simon was captured and tortured in front of his wife and daughters. The Serbs set him on fire and left him for dead, then murdered the remaining members of his family, burying the bodies in the neighbor’s backyard.”
Rocky stares at the hologram and the hideous facial deformities of the computer expert who had worked under her command for nearly two years.
An act of hatred, fueling a thousand more
…
Pertic continues. “How Covah actually survived the trauma is a medical wonder in itself. As you can see, the right side of the man’s face was burned clear down to the bone. Doctors had to replace the temporal section of his skull with a steel plate, which runs along his mangled earhole and right cheekbone. Covah refused to cover the plate with a skin graft—”
“He told me he always wanted to be reminded of the butchery,” Gunnar mumbles, a bit too loud.
Pertic gives him a long look. “Yes, well perhaps it was that internalized rage that gave him the strength to endure. Whatever the case, he spent four months in a NATO hospital before getting himself prematurely released. By that time, the United Nations had intervened in the Balkans and the pendulum had swung the other way. Covah joined the Kosovo Liberation Army, and the hunted became the hunter. Ethnic Albanian refugees returned to Kosovo from Macedonia and Albania, and the Serbs and other ethnic minorities suddenly found themselves at the mercy of the once-oppressed. Covah participated in some of the brutality, then just disappeared. Two years later, he showed up in Toronto. Dr. Goode brought him to Keyport after he quit Cangen.”
“He didn’t quit Cangen,” Gunnar says. “They threw him out.”
“Why?” Nunziata asks.
“Let’s just say, he pushed the envelope a bit too far.”
“Covah was brilliant,” General Jackson interjects. “He won the Feynman prize, awarded for molecular nanotechnology, three years running. The contributions he made to the GOLIATH Project were invaluable.”
“Yes, I’m sure the Chinese appreciated his efforts.” Nunziata snaps.
“Gentlemen, please.” The president looks tired. “Finish, Mr. Director.”
Gabor Pertic refers back to his notes. “The Chinese claim Covah and
seven members of his team were given political asylum and large commissions to work on the
Goliath
.”
“Covah’s team?” Nunziata glances at Pertic. “Not more of our scientists?”
“No, sir. In fact, none of these men offer the kind of expertise that might be useful on a submarine. Bit of a ragtag group, vigilantes mostly.” Pertic scans the list. “Two Kurd brothers, a Tibetan refugee named Trevedi, a history teacher from Sierra Leone, a guerrilla leader in East Timor, an older Albanian, believed to be a relative of Covah’s deceased wife and his personal physician, and Thomas Chau, a Chinese engineer educated in the States. Covah convinced the Chinese that he needed this team in order to complete the programming phase of
Goliath’s
bioengineered artificial brain. Knowing squat about
Sorceress
, the Chinese were forced to give Covah
carte blanche
. Two days prior to the sub’s shakedown cruise, Covah’s team killed three guards and sneaked aboard. Stole the ship right out from under the Communists’ noses.”
BOOK: Goliath
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